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Copyright, 1886, 
By J no. I. D. BRISTOL. 



All rights reserved. 



JTranftltn Prtzs : 

RAND AVERY COMPANY, 
BOSTON. 



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Prefage. 



yl /TY first attempts, with wavrmg fears, 
J. wJL Go forth upo7i these pages. 
That they will change the beliefs of years, 
Or the philosopliy of ages, 

I am not the egotist to believe. 
Yet some may here find a new truth, half expressed. 

Or here some lonesome honr may beguile ; 
And here some saddened sonl may lay at rest 
The ghost that robs him of his smile. 

And for a little while forget to grieve. 

/ /. D. B. 

New -York City, Oct. ij, i8S6. 



GONTENTS. 



The Necropolis of the Sea 5 

Evening 6 

T>ot Lamb <^ 

The Lesson of a Dream .... / / 
c/f Creed that's not a Creed . . . .12 

IV ho Knoweth? 14 

cyf Sunday on the CInppewa 75 

Lullaby // 

The Irish Picnic 18 

Only a Rose ........ 2y 



r^C NEGROPOLIS 0F TRE SEA. 



RANT, O Death ! that I at last may he at rest 
In old Ocean's arms ; upon my breast 
No clods, and neath my reposing head 
The jewelled pillow of Ocean's royal bed. 
Shrouded in her mighty depths of shade, 
Coffined in her eternal silence, let me be laid. 
The hollow pride that marks the resting-place 
Of all the nations of my race — 
The sculptured grandeur wrought for Vanity's eyes 
Above the worm where mouldering beauty lies — 
I'd see no more. The great, the clown, 
The ruler and lowliest subject, lie down 
In that vast necropolis of the sea, 
Equal, at last, in Death's final destiny. 
Distinction's haughty mark and wealth's shallow token 
The dead of the land may claim. The old Ocean 
Is more just. Within her mighty fold 
The dead are one ; prince and peasant, young and old. 
Have rung for them the same mighty dirge 
Of Ocean's moaning wind and sighing surge. 
No priest is there, nor pomp, nor hollow show, 
Nor fashion's forced ceremonial flow 
Of tears. Ocean's sublimest anthems roll 
For rich and poor alike. And the tired soul 
Longing to lie down to a last long rest, 
Findeth no easier couch than old Ocean's breast. 



EVENING. 



iN the ramparts of the evening skies 
Gleam a thousand burnished shields ; 
And blood-red banners are seen to rise, 
As on a battle-field. 

The solemn Night, as the Day doth die, 

Hastens with darkening shroud, 
And drapes the bier where his form doth lie 

In royal-purple cloud. 

O'er all the fields and wooded land 

The lengthening shadows creep, 
As silently as death's cold hand 

Falls o'er us in our sleep, 

I see the gleaming river's face 

Where the veils of mist arise. 
As when mighty thoughts have left their trace 

In a poet's flashing eyes. 

O'er all the valley, where the rays 

Of light die out in fitful beams, 
I hear a mighty hymn of praise 

As in old musicians' dreams. 



The distant trees that fade away 

In the coming of the night, 
Remind me of a host in line arrayed 

And marching out of sight. 

The evening air in fragrant flood 
Sheddeth round its sweet perfume, 

And upon the breast of every bud 
Gleams the jewel of its bloom. 

The river that so distant winds, 
With scarce a ripple on its breast, 

I liken to a happy mind 
That a perfect love hath blessed. 

Through swaying limbs and trembling leaves 

That murmur above my head, 
I hear the sighs of those who grieve 

For a love that is ever dead. 

The poetic soul of the evening wind 
Breathes on the harp of thought ; 

And Memory, on the page of mind. 
Writes the anthems that are wrought. 



B0T LAMB. 



^OT Mary had a schmall vite lamb 
Mit hair so fine hke silik ; 
Und every vere dot lamb vos vent, 
He raise dot brice of milik. 

Vonce Mary vent along to schurch, 
Yust Hke a good, schweet girl ; 

Und all at vonce dot lamb vos dere, 
A yumpin' like a squir'l. 

Und every leedle poy and girl 
Begin to laugh and schmile ; 

Und den dot lamb he yell so louid 
You hear him ha'f a mile. 

Und ven dot breacher, goot ole soul, 
He say, " Schweet lamb, gone ouit ! " 

Dot lamb he schtand upon his head, 
Und vag his dail abouit. 

Und den he makes an awful yump, 

Und dumbles on his zide ; 
Und Mary cry so awful louid, — 

She daught dot lamb vos died. 

But no : he only blay a drick, 
To make his Mary fear ; 



Vor, ven she patted dat vooley head, 
He valked off mi t his ear. 

Den Mary she vos awful shamed, 
Dot lamb put on sooch style ; 

Und she vish he vos away from her 
'Bouit forty dousan' mile. 

But ven dot lamb he kum mit her 

Und vink mit his left eye. 
Dot Mary velt her bosum schvell, 

Und she pegins to cry. 

" Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! mine leedle lamb,' 

Dot Mary cry so sad, 
" Vy follow me aroundt like dis .'' 

I fear I schall go mad." 

Und ven dot lamb he hear her cr}'-, 
Und look like she vos sick, 

He turned sheep's eyes upon dot girl, 
Und runs home mighty guick. 

Den Mary she vos offel glad 

Dot lamb vos run avay ; 
Und den indo dot schurch she goes, — 

Dot blace to zing und bray. 

But yust so soon she guiets down, 
Und dinks of dot lamb no more, 

Und every von vas zinging himes, 
Dere cums an offel roar. 



lO 

Den Mary givs an offel schtart, 
Und runs ouit mit all her might ; 

Vor veil she knew dot offel lamb 
Vould soon cum into zight. 

Und, sure enough, along a road 

Vot leaded down vrom a hill 
A putcher-poy, mit knife in bant, 

Vos after dot lamb to kill. 

Und every yump dot lamb vould make 
Dot putcher-poy vould shouit : 
" Mine kingdom vor dot Mary's lamb, 
To cut his gizzards ouit ! " 

Und over hills und over dales, 
Und over dreis und schtumps, 

Und over fields und vences dall, 
Mit forty dousan' yumps, 

Dot lamb und putcher-poy vos vent, 

Mit roars and noises louid. 
Dot lamb he looked, as he yumped along, 

Yust like a schnow-vite clouid. 

But dot putcher-poy vos ouit mit bret' ; 

Dot lamb he could not harms : 
Und Mary's pet, mit one great yump, 

Vos gattered mit her arms. 



II 



The L2ESS0N GF A DREAM, 



S every care-burdened hour passed, 
From the steeple's giddy height 
The bells pealed out their echoes 
On the silent, solemn night. 

At last I slept, and, dreaming, heard 
The wail of a hungry child ; 

And the figure of Want passed by me, 
Haggard and gaunt and wild. 

And I saw a thousand little faces, 

All hollow-eyed and thin. 
In hovels and in misery 

Where this figure glided in. 

And I heard the groans of husbands, 
And I saw the tears of wives, 

As this figure stood before them. 
And they battled for their lives. 

And I saw the broken windows 
That rattled hoarse and loud ; 

And the frost that hung upon them 
Gleamed whiter than a shroud. 

And I awoke with the city's waking. 
Strengthened in my despair ; 

For in a dream I'd learned 
What others have to bear. 



12 



A GREED THAT'S NOT A GREEB. 



YOU ask my creed ? I have none ; for, 
In this greatest age of earth, 
A creed would bind me to beliefs of the past : 
And in a few years, worried and harassed, 
I'd fear Progression's greater birth. 

No : I have no creed to change 

As onward roll the coming days, 
And call my own with doubt, amid the jeers 
Of Science, ringing out the old beliefs of years, 

And sounding the purer notes of praise. 

No : I am no friend to any creed, 

For this one sublime reason : 
My faculties must be free in this great age 
To think, hope, and investigate. Do not rage, 

My friend: 'tis not unholy treason. 

No creed at all .-' No ; I want none. 

My mind must not be fettered : 
I must advance abreast of all things new. 
Your creeds retard me ; their steps are slow and few ; 

And with them I'd not be bettered. 

Mental freedom ! No creeds for me ; 

Immortality, hell, or heaven, 
I'd be free to think upon, meditate, and muse 



13 



To my own liking. This your creeds refuse, 
Though from God you say they're given. 

Think of these grander, higher thoughts, 

And yet with you adopt a creed ? 
No, no ! When with your Church I say, "This I believe," 
I cannot think else, unless I deceive, — 

The hypocrite's unmanly deed. 

Need for thinking otherwise ? Yes. 

On all things without your church wall 
I'd reason freely; not as your creed. binds me, 
But as the circumstance of thought finds me, 

If reason I dare at all. 

Creeds are unnatural. Men are 

All unlike, and Nature view 
From their own organizations ; reading the pages 
Of Creation's grand volume through all the ages, 

In search of truths sublime and new. 

The wiser man, he of unbelief. 

Reads clothed in mental liberty. 
He seeks to learn the underlying cause 
Of all of Nature's varied natural laws 

With mind unprejudiced and free. 

And men know the good intuitively, — 

The higher truth, the pure and right. 
What need, then, of creeds ? They are at best but crude 
The lingering, dying thoughts of ages old and rude, 

The dreams of intellectual night. 



H 




VRO KNOVETR? 



'HO doth know, ah, who, the unknown thread of life, 
Woven through all the future years ? 
And yet the loom of Time weaves on and on, 
Through all our days of hopes and fears, 
Unto the end. 

Who doth know if joy or sorrow shall be ours 

In the days that are to be ? 
If Fortune's smiles shall light on us 

And brighten our destiny ? 
Ah, who can tell ? 

Life's pictures are filled with shades and shadows. 

And joys in which they blend ; 
Hope brightens the hazy distance ; 

But the ever-nearing end. 

Ah, who doth know ? 



15 



A SaNDAY ON TRE CRIPPEVA. 



WAY from the screech of the whistles 
And the Christians' clanging bells ; 
Out from the noise and din of the city, 
Forgetting a world so wanting in pity, 
My being in gladness dwells. 

Here I'll rest. Great pines above me rise, 
Surrounded by Autumn's wealth. 

The silent day is about to die ; 

The sun shines low in a hazy sky ; 
The air is laden with health. 

O Nature ! I list to your teachings, 

As softly yon river glides by ; 
And winds in the tree-tops are playing. 
With Autumn tints gladly arraying, 

Wild but harmoniously. 

Hallowed peace around me everywhere, 
Though a thousand sermons call 

To my faculties all delighted ; 

For my reason is not benighted. 
Not a creed is here at all. 



i6 



My seat is free. Prim Fashion is not here 

With her affected air ; 
And doctrines horrible are not heard, 
To chill and anger better natures stirred 

To happiness from despair. 

Atonements, infantile damnation, 

The elects' salvation, 
Predestination, and that awful hell, — 
Such doctrines cannot here a moment dwell 

Mid autumn's fair creation. 

All is too grandly fair and beautiful 

For these ancient, musty creeds 
To share my thoughts mid these grand old trees, 
And Nature's music playing symphonies 

That rouse me to nobler deeds. 

Hark to the spirit of Nature speaking, 
And the hymn of the Autumn sung ! 

The wild heart of the woods is boundino- • 

A benediction is gladly sounding ; 
An anthem of praise is rung. 

Perfection, progression, and truth, 

And love of our fellow.-men. 
With faithfulness and purity, — 
These are our greater surety 

Of joy and happiness. Amen ! 



I? 



LabhABY. 



SEA ! dost thou hear 
My baby dear, cooing on my knee, 
And clapping her little hands ? 
She hears thy waves surge soothingly 
Upon the sloping sands 

In lullaby. 

O Sea ! dost thou know 
My baby sleeps on her mother's breast, 

As the wind comes o'er thy lea ? 
Her baby cares are all at rest, 
While waves are tossing free 
In lullaby. 

Oh, sleep, sleep, my babe ! 
Sleep on and dream. The sea shall sing 

While thy mother watches thee ; 
And surging waves and winds shall bring 
Their soothing psalmistry 

In lullaby. 



TRE irisr pignig. 



>ROM Time's fathomless ocean, each drop is a day, 
Unceasingly descending the fall of eternity ; 
The mist atoms slowly rising, then lost in the skies, 
Are the lives of men fading from Memory's eyes ; 
The bow ever changing o'er the gulf deep and vast 
Is the first love of youth, too beautiful to last ; 
The deep waters rushing in madness and strife 
Is the bustle and worry and the labors of life ; 
And the bubbles that float for a moment, and burst, 
Are men's fevered ambitions, dying of thirst. 
Each day of the millions brings with it its cares, 
Its moments of pleasure, its griefs, and its snares ; 
Each hour of each cycle may wreck or make happy a life ; 
Each moment may be the parent of joy or of strife ; 
A love may be born that gods envy to share 
From a sunbeam that falls on a maid's golden hair ; 
And there may come a life of woe and wretched unrest 
From the first thought of true love that enters the breast. 
But such thoughts are wearying and full of unrest : 
To many this life is but a burden at best, 
So darkened with error that the bright rays of truth 
Only fall on our manhood from the sun of our youth. 

Oh, me soul it is weary ! let it wander away 
To the beautiful island far over the say. 



19 



Where once more I'm a bye in the land I love best, 

Where the bones of me kindred are laid in their rest. 

Ah, swate memories remain of those bright, happy days 

We spint in ould Ireland ; and no praise 

Is too great for the green isle we have left, 

For its sufferin' people, of liberty bereft, 

For its skies an' its hills, an' its meadows so green, 

An' its lakes that glimmer an' glisten an' sheen 

In the sunlight wid flashes as quick an' as bright 

As the glistening diamond when held in the light. 

But to me patriotism I must give a truce, 

For in these sad days it's of little use 

To be proud of ould Ireland : our country is gone. 

An' its entire long history a story of wrong. 

But our last picnic we had there was hard to bate, 

Wid its many good things to drink an' to ate, 

An' its wit an' its beauty that gathered there 

To memorize I'aving ould Ireland the fair. 

Though sad to depart from the land that we loved, 

The joy in our souls wud still come above ; 

For 'twas the day before sailing to this land of the free, 

An' I'aving the ould for the new country, 

'Twas in summer, in the bright month of June, 
When Nature has all her sweet music in tune ; 
When birds sing in the air, an' up in the trees 
The winds play a melody in the green leaves ; 
When the buds have all bursted in bloom. 
An' the daisies the carpet of Nature illume ; 



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When souls are happy, an' hearts are light, 

An' the eyes of all maidens, like stars in the night, 

Gleam brightly wid love an' wid song, 

An' cares fade into happiness all the day long. 

But let poetry alone. Of the picnic I'll tell, 

An' of the many goings-on that befell 

The whole party of us, that now I'll count o'er 

If I can remember their names any more. 

Let me see: the two O'Swatigans, that's wan — 

Now, be the piper to Moses ! before I've begun 

I see a mistake. The two O'Swatigans last 

I'll put next, to save countin' so fast. 

The two O'Swatigans, wan. Wan, do ye's mind ; 

Oh, hunt the warld o'er, an' ye'U not find 

A bull like that. Then there was — O'Rouke, 

The blind fiddler who fell in the brook, 

Making three. An' then there was lame Flinn, 

Who fell over the buttermilk-jar on his shin, 

An' broke his shoulder-blade, — an' he was four ; 

An' his swate little partner, Kathleen Moore, 

Wid the flashin' black eyes, that put in a fix 

The heart of Tim Mulvaney, who made six. 

Me own partner I won't count, — the little Widdy McGee, 

Wid the great, big fortune, who was after me. 

An' then, be St. Patrick ! another wan came, — 

A moighty foine gentleman, whose name 

Was O'GiUigan, an' he was sevin ; 

Wid a partner whose smile wud send ye to heaven 

A-horseback, — Oh, the swate little girl, 



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Wid a chake like a rose, an' hair all a^curl 

That cudn't be imi/^zted or bate 

By anny wan ; an' she was eight. 

McCarty was nine, an' his partner was tin, — 

A beautiful young charmer, be name Nora Quinn, 

An' then, let me think: the eleventh — McCue ; 

An' on his arm leaning, Miss O'Donahue, 

Who cud jig wid the last on the floor ; 

An' she was twelve. But then, there were more ; 

For O'Toole, wid his ould mare, an' red cart 

That squaked an' tumbled us all out on the start, 

Was thirteen. An' for his ugley ould mare, 

Once white as a snow-bank, but nary a hair 

But what had turned yaller upon the ould baste, 

She didn't relish the load of us at laste, 

Wid the noggins of buttermilk, an' cakes an' pies, 

An' whiskey, hoop ! enough to blacken the eyes 

Of every man in the party, an' every nose 

To make as bloomin' an' as flat as a rose. 

An' then it was a swate spot where the picnic took place, 

Where, spread out on the grass in such beautiful grace, 

The ould whiskey and new buttermilk was set 

In such timptin' display that the mouth of me yet 

Waters, an' the stomach of me feels warm 

At the swate memory of that day, whose charm 

Will never melt till me last hour is done, 

An' ould grim Death the victory has won. 

An' spakin' of death, reminds me of McCue, 
Who'd drink more whiskey, an' buttermilk too, 



22 



Than anny six of us there ; for, mind ye, 

He tuk to it as a duck to water, kindly. 

But when he got full, an' mellow an' tipsy, 

Miss Quinn, as full of ould Nick as a gypsy, 

Says to him : " Like Death on the pale horse ye look." 

An' answered McCue : " Did ye get that out of a book ? 

An' arrah now, hould a bit," says he, 

" I'm not Death on a horse, but death on whiskey ! " 

Now this smartness of McCue started thim all, every wan ; 

An' to stories an' jokes all our tongues then ran. 

An' the funniest, queerest that ever was spun. 

Sparkling all over wid rale ould Irish fun. 

That wud make a man laugh upon his death-bed, 

An' the bride at the altar afore she was wed. 

An' some I'll tell to ye's, though not a wan-half 

Of the wans that was tould wid manny a laugh. 

The first was O'Rouke's : tellin' how wan night 

His ould father cum home mighty tight. 

An', after takin' a bit of a nap in the barn, 

Cum into the kitchen, an' swallowed a ball of yarn 

Dropped into the buttermilk-jar that day 

By the little girls an' boys whin at play ; 

For the ould man had becum mighty dry. 

An' he grabbed the first jar that chanced to be nigh. 

But when it passed down, he opened his mug, 

An' yelled, "Holy murther ! I've swallowed a straddle-bug! 

An' whin the ould woman an' all the childer 

Cum runnin' about, he only grew wilder 

Wid yellin' an' jumpin' ; an' thin he grew pale, 



23 



For, falin' in his mouth, he cried, " Here's its tail ! " 

An' O'Rouke said it was but the truth. 

For the end of the yarn had caught in his tooth. 

An' then a grab he made at it, and didn't fail, 

Father, in catchin' the straddle-bug's tail ; 

An' then he pulled. " O Lord ! what a baste ! " 

He yelled ; " His tail's a mile long at laste." 

An' he kept on pullin' : an' then he stopped quick, 

For the stomache of him begin to grow sick ; 

An' he says, " It's the climatic influence, I'll travel, 

Ould woman, it's no straddle-bug : I'm beginnin' to unravel. 

Then McCarty tould of a wild Irish lad 

Who found a mud-turtle, which made him glad, 

For 'twas the first he'd ever seen ; an' wid a stick 

He wint at it, making pokes slow an' quick. 

An' then give a jump, an' let out a yell, 

An' ran to another bould Paddy to tell 

What he'd seen ; an' this is what he said : 

" A walkin' snuff-box that swallowed his own head, 

An' carry in' it off wid him into the sea, 

Drownded himself complate an' entirely." 

Ah, these were some of the times we had on the green, 
Wid as merry a party as ever was seen ; 
An' to this hour I hear the larks in the sky. 
An' see the glad brightness in every deep eye 
Of the swate Irish maids we had wid us that day. 
Though many a long year has since passed away. 



24 



And the maiden of all maids 'tb'e'faifcg^V ' ■ ' ^ 

Of all womanly types the rarest. 

With eyes like the blue depths of heaven the bluest, 

With heart of all womanly hearts the truest, 

With brow like the lily the whitest, 

With step like the moonbeam the lightest, 

With laugh like a lake echo the purest, 

With faith of all womanly faiths the surest ; 

Maid whose- cheeks were like twin roses in bloom, 

Maid of the amber hair, rich in perfume, 

Sweet Nora, the lily, maid of my dreams ! 

On Memory's bright canvas thy picture still gleams, 

For Love was the artist who painted it there 

In Hope's brightest tints, with no shades of despair ; 

O picture of Memory ! though exiled and lonely, 

It is rich that I am, possessing thee only. 

For rale ould fun that makes a man young. 
An' for all the rich pleasures that ever were sung, 
'Tis hard to bate picnics upon the ould sod. 
The land of enjoyment wherever 'tis trod. 
Though wid live poverty at home. 

An' wid dead trade in her marts, 
Irish wit an' enjoyment 

Reigns supreme in all hearts. 



25 



ONbY A ROSE. 



I PL AC ED a rose on my love's warm breast^ 
From whence in death only to part ; 
And I kissed the pillow that soothed it to rest, 
And I knew the soul of the rose was blessed, 
For it felt every beat of her heart. 

And I thought that if I were blessed like the rose. 

My life I'd exchange with the flower ; 
And smile in Love's joy at the lot that I chose. 
Could I like the rose on her bosom repose, 
And like the rose die in an hour. 

But thou only, O rose, in loving entwine 

On her bosom art welcome to lie ; 
And I envy the life that only is thine, 
To feel the warmth of that bosom divine, 

And to die the death that you die. 



«/sDV OF CONGRESS 

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